By Elizabeth Hoyt
"Elizabeth Hoyt has outdone herself." --Jennifer Ashley, manhattan instances bestselling author
WHEN A MASKED guy . . .
Twenty years in the past Maximus Batten witnessed the brutal murders of his mom and dad. Now the autocratic Duke of Wakefield, he spends his days ruling Parliament. yet via evening, disguised because the Ghost of St. Giles, he prowls the awful alleys of St. Giles, ever at the hunt for the assassin. One evening he unearths a fiery girl who meets him toe-to-toe-and won't backpedal . . .
MEETS HIS fit . . .
Artemis Greaves toils as a lady's spouse, yet hiding underneath the apparent brown serge of her costume is the guts of a huntress. while the Ghost of St. Giles rescues her from footpads, she acknowledges a kindred spirit-and is intrigued. She's much more intrigued whilst she realizes who precisely the infamous Ghost is via day . . .
DESIRE IGNITES a perilous PASSION
Artemis makes a daring circulation: she calls for that Maximus use his impact to unfastened her imprisoned brother-or she's going to disclose him because the Ghost. yet blackmailing a strong duke isn't with no dangers. Now that she has the tiger through the tail, can she face up to his ire-or the temptation of his include?
Read or Download Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane, Book 6) PDF
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Additional info for Duke of Midnight (Maiden Lane, Book 6)
He grinned at his admirers—"Andrewes, don't you know, Regent Street, devilish expensive and worth every penny,"—and drifted away into the holiday throng. But the cocky grin faded as Marston strolled out of the youths' line of vision. Tracing a path through the crowd of high-spirited, well-dressed revelers, he seemed alternately to scan the faces about him and to withdraw into himself, as though afraid to encounter the object of his search. If any of his young imitators had seen him, they would have felt a measure of disappointment in their idol's ambiguous behavior; they might even have become troubled or confused by the occasional expression of yearning that flitted across his face.
Evidently refreshed by his journey, he'd won an impressive pile at Vivien's last night. David intended to call on him this afternoon to tell him that he was under surveillance by an enemy. Of course, he'd reassure him that, for now at least, the enemy had been cleverly and effectively distracted. Stokes had given up the chase somewhere short of the Lake District, much—as he'd told David yesterday—to Baron Bunbury's displeasure. He'd been sure he'd sighted Marston's carriage, but there had only been two old duffers in it.
Tracing a path through the crowd of high-spirited, well-dressed revelers, he seemed alternately to scan the faces about him and to withdraw into himself, as though afraid to encounter the object of his search. If any of his young imitators had seen him, they would have felt a measure of disappointment in their idol's ambiguous behavior; they might even have become troubled or confused by the occasional expression of yearning that flitted across his face. Because this evening—and for no discernable reason—this evening the normally unflappable Phizz appeared—well, there was really no other word for it—quite uncharacteristically ftuttery.